


victory in defeat

by rangerhitomi



Series: 30 Days of Tomoshipping [1]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Developing Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-26 01:08:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14390979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rangerhitomi/pseuds/rangerhitomi
Summary: three times Durbe wins at the sword, and one time Nasch does(or: Nasch's father has forbidden him from learning to fight and in order to hide it from Merag, they pretend they're secretly in a relationship instead)





	victory in defeat

**Author's Note:**

> theme: competing

_i._

At twelve, Nasch is hardly old enough to learn the sword; at fourteen, Durbe is hardly old enough to teach it. The king had expressed his opposition to having his son learn the art of war at this age, but Nasch is so insistent that, finally, the knight-in-training closest to Nasch's age gives in.

"Your father can't know," Durbe reminds the prince as they approach the palace stables. It's an unnecessary warning, of course; the only reason they're sneaking around after sunset is because Nasch's father would disapprove.

The stable is empty of servants, who have finished cleaning the stalls and feeding the horses, but Durbe takes Nasch to a back corner, where there's enough space to move around and enough warning if someone comes into the stables for them to hide in a stall.

Durbe won't let Nasch use a real sword, or even a fake sword; they practice with blunt wooden staves that nonetheless hurt when Durbe prods it into Nasch's ribs, knees, and shoulders. Nasch is too proud, even at twelve years old, to admit that he's relieved they started with basic form movements instead of real weapons. Durbe is still somewhat clumsy with his footwork, but Nasch is so abysmal that he can't even land one hit.

They practice for an hour or so, until Nasch is certain he's got a few bruises and every inch of his torso aches. Durbe offers to take a look and maybe do some sloppy healing aid, but Nasch knows better and convinces Durbe that he'll have a palace healer apply some salve later.

(He doesn't, and ends up nursing some sore bones for the next week until they practice again and it starts all over.)

  


_ii._

At fourteen, Nasch is feasibly old enough to learn the sword, if he hadn't already been learning it weekly for two years; at sixteen, Durbe is already moving quickly through the ranks of the knighthood. Still Nasch's father, the king, refuses to allow Nasch to learn the sword, despite Nasch's pleas. The older they get, the more skilled Durbe becomes, and Nasch fears his weekly secret training is insufficient for him to keep up with Durbe. Durbe must feel the same, since even after two years he seems to think Nasch lacks even the basics to move on from staves to practice swords.

"You're lunging too much," Durbe tells him after the hundredth time of soundly defeating Nasch without even breaking a sweat. He holds his hand out to help Nasch to his feet, but Nasch scowls and forces himself up, ignoring Durbe's gesture of goodwill. "It's easy for me to sidestep you and strike while you're open."

Nasch rubs his lower ribs. "I can't get close enough to you otherwise."

Durbe leans his stave against the stall door and takes a drink from his canteen. "If your enemy is faster and stronger than you, you need to use their speed and strength against them."

"Easy for you to say," Nasch grumbles, reaching for his own canteen.

"Look." Durbe takes Nasch's wrist, the stave still tightly clenched in his hand. He stands directly behind Nasch, resting his chin on Nasch's shoulder; this is the closest Durbe has ever been to Nasch when showing him techniques and for some reason it's making Nasch nervous. "When you lunge forward, like this-" he demonstrates, pulling Nasch along into an tilted stance "-it gives your opponent extra time to disarm or attack you. Why?"

Nasch swallows, despite his mouth being dry. He wishes he'd been able to take a drink before Durbe decided to use that exact moment to teach him something he probably should have been teaching all along. "I'm wide open."

"And?" Durbe tries to swing Nasch's arm in an arc, but Nasch nearly topples over. Durbe places his hand on Nasch's waist to straighten him.

"Off-balance," Nasch manages in a high voice that Durbe mercifully either doesn't notice or chooses not to comment on.

"Right. If you know the person you're facing is faster and stronger than you, be defensive. It takes less energy." He lets go of Nasch, returns his stave to his hand, and turns to face Nasch.

Nasch casually leans down to grab his canteen, taking his time drinking from it. His hand is sweaty. He tries casually wiping it on his trousers after setting the canteen back on the ground. "Implying that you tire me out?"

"Don't I?" Durbe has a cocky little smile on his face that doesn't go away when he effortlessly beats Nasch again.

  


_iii._

At sixteen, Nasch is being prepared as the heir to the throne; at eighteen, Durbe has been promoted to full knighthood. He's the youngest to achieve the title of knight in decades.

Nasch's duties - reading, writing, studying maps, learning etiquette, praying, and even tasks like sewing and cooking - take so much of his time that his desire to train with Durbe more than once a week take a hit. Durbe is also overwhelmed with knightly duties - someone has to train new recruits, go on scouting and diplomatic missions, and spend hours at a time making sure Nasch wasn't sleeping when he needed to be studying - but he still finds a couple of hours a week to train Nasch, even though the king still doesn't want fighting to be part of Nasch's regimen.

"You're improving," Durbe says one sweltering evening, wiping the sweat from his face with the bottom of his shirt.

Nasch takes a swig of water, avoiding staring at the unexpectedly toned abs Durbe was exposing. "Still haven't landed a single blow on you, in four years." He leans against the wall and sighs. "I wish my father would let me train with you. I'm old enough. A few hours here and there is fine, but I'm so far behind you that I would depend on you in battle, and I'm tired of practicing in secret."

"Mm." Durbe makes a noncommittal noise and reaches for his own water. "I would be in a heap of trouble if your father knew what we were doing."

"It was my idea," Nasch says stubbornly.

"And I went along with it," Durbe adds. "Against your father's wishes."

They fall silent for a bit, Nasch fiddling with his stave. It's the closest Durbe's ever come to expressing regret for disobeying the king, but surely he had his reservations each time they snuck out of the palace and trained. Nasch had spent many uncomfortable days after training trying to cover up his bruises by wearing shawls and long trousers, claiming to be a bit cold when it was hot in the palace. He doesn't fault Durbe, of course; the whole thing had always been his request of the knight, and Durbe hardly knew that he was leaving visible marks on Nasch's skin when he jabbed and poked with his stave.

Durbe clears his throat, ending the silence at last. "Prince Nasch, I... I never want you to have to experience battle."

"I don't expect to have to," Nasch says, nonplussed. "I'd rather be prepared in a worst-case scenario than be taken by surprise."

"Still," Durbe says, not meeting Nasch's eyes, "I will do the fighting for you, and I'll always-"

Nasch claps a hand over Durbe's mouth, heart pounding, and pulls Durbe toward the nearest stall. Their staves both clatter quietly to the floor and Nasch can feel Durbe grimace beneath his sweaty hand. Some horses in nearby stalls whicker in what Nasch takes to be annoyance.

"Brother? Are you still out here?"

"It's Merag," he whispers in a strangled sort of voice. "Shit."

He doesn't believe that his sister will tell their father that he's been training behind his back for four years, but he does fear that she'll convince the king to make Nasch sit in on more etiquette training, classes, and mind-numbing meditation sessions to keep him occupied and tired and less likely to find the time to train with Durbe.

He places a finger to Durbe's lips and cautiously peeks around the corner. Merag is wearing casual clothes, peering over stall doors on the other side of the stables by the doors. She's not looking in his direction, and when she's preoccupied with petting Durbe's pegasus Mahha, Nasch grabs Durbe's arm and pulls him unceremoniously into the nearest stall, which mercifully is unoccupied and mostly clean. The stall door is only about five and a half feet tall, just slightly taller than Durbe and about Nasch's height, but he still pulls Durbe to the floor, into a fresh pile of hay that the stableboys had put out for the horse occupying this stall the next day.

"Don't you think that her finding us hiding like this will arouse her suspicions that we're doing something we shouldn't?" Durbe whispers.

He's absolutely right, but the king absolutely cannot find out that Durbe has been disobeying a direct order for years. Nasch can handle the punishment; Durbe has worked too hard for this to be his downfall.

Merag's footsteps get closer.

Nasch's heartbeat intensifies.

 _What do people do when they're hiding in smelly horse stalls?_ he wonders, and remembers a time a couple of servants had been caught in a similar situation, and though they hadn't been punished, it had been a very awkward experience for everyone involved.

 _It's better for this to be uncomfortable for a while than get Durbe into trouble,_ he decides, climbs on top of Durbe, closes his eyes, and puts his face against Durbe's.

He's pretty sure he doesn't have his lips anywhere near Durbe's mouth, and that's likely for the best, but Durbe's hands are hovering midair like he has no idea what is going on or how he got in this position or what to do or how to _feel_ , and Nasch just prays for Merag to hurry up and find them to get this over with for Durbe's sake.

Durbe finally finds his hands, placing them on Nasch's chest, and turns his face away from Nasch's. "P-Princess Merag..."

"Hope I wasn't interrupting anything important."

Under the complete embarrassment, which is intensified when Nasch sees Durbe's cherry-red face and tense shoulders, Nasch thinks he detects a hint of amusement in his sister's voice, which gives him a tiny bit of hope that this will blow over without _too_ much teasing.

So he takes a deep breath and turns, still straddling Durbe's torso, and puts on his best look of regal indifference as he faces Merag, who is hanging over the stall door (her legs probably dangled from the ground). Judging from his sister's bemused expression, he's not pulling it off well. "Do you mind?"

"No," she says sweetly.

Nasch _tsks_ and climbs off Durbe, who doesn't move. "What do you want."

"I've been wondering where you two have gotten off to recently, so I came to investigate." She gives Durbe a meaningful look. "I wasn't expecting this."

"I'm sorry," Durbe mumbles, "this is a shameful situation that you've found me in and-"

"It was entirely my doing," Nasch interrupts, and both the knight and his sister stare at him. "We came out here to visit Mahha but my... passions ran away with me."

Merag's eyebrows shoot up. Durbe's probably do too, but Nasch won't look at him now.

"So you thought it appropriate to mack on Father's favorite knight?"

"I wasn't _macking_ on him," Nasch says indignantly. "Whatever that even means."

Merag opens her mouth like she wants to argue but closes it and sighs instead. "What if it was Father instead of me who found you here like a couple of..." She frowns. "I don't know, insert-good-analogy-here?"

"It _wasn't_ Father," Nasch says slowly and deliberately, "and he won't find out about this, _will he_."

She rolls her eyes and hops down from the stall door. As she walks away, she calls back, "I sure _wonder_ where my brother is today."

Nasch waited until he heard the stall doors close behind her to let out a breath of relief. She didn't know they were training with the sword, but she would definitely hold _this_ over his head, which meant plenty of unbearable situations where he had to do her bidding for fear of her letting slip that he and Durbe were-

_Oh._

"Oh no," he whispers.

Durbe is still half-lying in the hay, staring stock-still at the rafters.

"Durbe?" Nasch tries tentatively.

He turns his whole head to look at Nasch. "The princess thinks that... we're..."

They sit in the hay for a long time, the silence growing more uncomfortable with each passing minute until Durbe finally suggests that they get back to the palace. Neither looks at the other the whole way back.

  


_iv._

At eighteen, Prince Nasch is old enough to run certain aspects of the kingdom on his own; at twenty, Sir Durbe is training new recruits on his own. Both are preoccupied with their own duties but neither has quite forgotten that hot afternoon in the stables. Nasch has never managed to tell Merag that there was nothing _there_ , that it was simple childhood curiosity that compelled him to, as she said, _mack on_ a well-respected knight.

She knows when he's lying, after all.

Their training sessions become fewer and fewer; when they do have them, Durbe is quiet and avoids touching Nasch, which doesn't help Nasch grow as a fighter in the slightest. Durbe is immensely skilled with the sword, and has far surpassed Nasch in every aspect. Even now, six years later, Durbe refuses to use a practice sword with Nasch.

He does feel... something, he thinks, for the handsome knight, polite and skilled, mannered and intelligent. Whether Durbe feels the same unspoken tension when they talk is a mystery to Nasch, since Durbe rarely keeps eye contact and no longer kisses the back of Nasch's hand in formal greeting.

One particularly hot day, Nasch can't deal with it anymore.

"Sir Durbe."

He catches up with the knight easily; Durbe is carrying himself with a deep weariness through the palace halls, wearing casual clothes instead of his armor, and looking smaller for it.

"My prince," Durbe says, scratching at his ear. "Can I help you?"

Nasch glances casually up and down the hallway before leaning closer. "I'd like to train with you."

Durbe sighs. "Tonight?"

"Tonight."

Another sigh. He rubs his eyes. "It's too hot to be in the stalls."

"Not there." Nasch has had this idea for a while, but he could never bring himself to suggest it. "Take Mahha out to one of the islands."

Durbe inhales slowly, looking around the hall. "Okay," he says finally, "meet me at the stables in an hour."

They part, Nasch full of a nervous energy. He returns to his room and changes from his formal silks into casual clothes, comfortable for exercising and breathable in the heat, and hurries to the kitchens to get something to eat.

An hour later, Durbe is ready at the stables with Mahha, already saddled up, and as Durbe is helping Nasch onto Mahha's back, Merag arrives again with a skeptical look on her face.

"Oh for the gods' sakes," Nasch mutters, settling into the incredibly uncomfortable saddle to the best of his ability.

"Where are you dragging poor Sir Durbe off to, dear brother?" she asks sweetly.

"It doesn't really matter," Nasch begins, but the rest of his retort is silenced when Durbe places a hand on his knee.

"Princess Merag," Durbe says quietly, so quietly that Nasch can barely hear, "your brother and I... would like some privacy. We have things to discuss away from the noise and gossip of the palace."

Merag's eyes darted between the two, Nasch staring at the reins in front of him. "Why not in your private quarters?"

"People would talk," Durbe says promptly, "if they saw one of us entering or leaving."

It's the first time Nasch has seen his sister speechless. He probably has the same look on his face.

Durbe takes her hand in both of his. "We would... appreciate your discretion, Princess."

"This... this is real, then, is it?" Merag looks past Durbe at her brother. He can't bring himself to look at her. "Have you been doing this for two years?"

"Like I said," Durbe says patiently, "we have things to talk about."

Merag inhales and blows out sharply. "Well, you'd better go to the volcanic island, then."

"Why?" Nasch finally manages to look up.

"Because," she says carefully, "you're going to examine volcanic soil, aren't you?"

Without another word, she turns and heads back toward the palace.

 _Thank you,_ Nasch thinks.

Durbe watches her leave, licks his lips, and hoists himself onto the saddle in front of Nasch.

"Hold tight," he says, completely unnecessarily, and they take off.

As Nasch holds Durbe's chest with a death grip, face pressing into Durbe's back, he wants to ask whether Durbe actually had something they needed to talk about or if he'd lied to Merag to get her to let them go without question. But the wind roars so he can barely hear the rhythmic flapping of Mahha's wings, let alone any noise Durbe may make.

The landing is bumpy and nerve-wracking, with Mahha hitting the ground running, jolting the smooth gliding into a gallop before slowing gradually to a stop. He keeps his arms around Durbe's body until Durbe taps Nasch's hands.

"We've stopped," he offers.

"I noticed." Nasch pulls himself away and waits for Durbe to dismount.

They've landed in a deserted area of the beach, surrounded by jagged obsidian rocks. It would be difficult for anyone without a boat or a flying horse to reach them here, Nasch thinks, which would explain why Durbe has chosen it for... whatever it is Durbe has in mind for them to do.

Nasch isn't sure at this point that they're here just for training. Part of him is dreading the coming conversation, even though he's waited two years to have it and rehearsed it in his head a thousand times, but whatever he says it's going to make things awkward for both of them.

So he folds his arms and says in the most regal voice he possesses, "are you going to help me down, Sir Durbe?"

"Oh..." Durbe turns back to Nasch and holds out a hand, helping Nasch dismount from Mahha's back.

It takes him a moment to let go, even after Nasch is safely on the ground.

"We need to talk about that thing that happened two years ago," Nasch blurts out before he can chicken out.

Durbe makes a quiet noise, something of reluctance, but he nods and clasps his hands behind his back.

Nasch inhales. Exhales. Fiddles with the hem of his shirt. Scuffs his foot on the black soil. Finally looks up. "That was something I did because I was more worried about Father finding out about you disobeying him. I thought if Merag thought we... if she thought something else, she would keep it to herself. I never intended to cause you discomfort, and I'm sorry."

He expects Durbe to be relieved, that they could finally put this behind them and move on with Nasch's training. Durbe had played along with their pretend romance very well, well enough that Merag was fully convinced of it, but Durbe will surely want to quash it here, now, and they can honestly tell Merag that nothing is going on any longer.

Instead, Durbe's mouth twitches in a half-smile as he looks down at his feet. "The discomfort was never about that incident, Nasch, it was how I... felt. Afterward."

Nasch's heart stops.

"I blamed youthful whimsy on it. There was a strange thrill in being caught in..." He sighs and shrugs. "Not that I think it wise that anything _should_ have happened more than a pretend... thing, I guess, but spending so much time with you over the years has... affected me, maybe, and maybe it's because my loyalty to you has spread to a deep bond that... you know, I care about you and..."

"Durbe," Nasch interrupts, though there's something thrilling about hearing Durbe go on about the evolution of this whole thing, "you're rambling."

"Ah... so I am." Durbe bites his lip. Sighs again. Looks at the rapidly setting sun. Turns to Mahha. Back to Nasch. "I'm not good at this kind of thing."

"Fight me," Nasch says.

"Pardon?"

"Fight me," Nasch repeats. "The best way to express feelings is through a fight, right?"

Durbe repeats the phrase quietly and half-smiles again. "I suppose. Wait here."

Nasch frowns after him as he hurries across the darkening beach toward a grove of bushes overflowing with berries. Durbe digs around in the bushes for a second before unveiling two swords with a flourish.

He doesn't know what to say as Durbe hands him one of the swords - light, and not terribly sharp, but real steel nonetheless - but as Durbe takes his position, he feels a smile creeping over his face.

The sand isn't soft and cushiony but sharp and gritty, which provides good traction as Nasch digs in to deflect Durbe's first jab. Durbe's eyebrows lift in surprise but he's not caught off guard and recovers his pose effortlessly.

"Not bad," he says.

"Shut up and fight."

Nasch is able to deflect nearly every one of Durbe's jabs and swings, and the one that gets through Durbe pulls away at the last second to avoid piercing Nasch's shoulder.

"I could have won right there," Durbe says, a smile on his face.

"Not even enough to slow me," Nasch retorts, and when Durbe steps forward, sword aimed at his chest, Nasch bends down and swings his leg, catching Durbe right behind the knee. Durbe falls backward, swings his arms around for balance, fails, and lands hard on the ground. With a self-satisfied smirk, Nasch places his sword over Durbe's heart.

"I win," he says.

Durbe looks stunned, mouth open and eyebrows furrowed. "That was dirty."

"Maybe for _you_." He sets the sword aside and holds out his hand to help Durbe up. "Not for me. I'll win no matter w-"

His gloating is cut short as Durbe pulls Nasch forward by the hand, and he lands heavily on top of Durbe.

Durbe laughs, one hand on Nasch's back with his other still holding Nasch's, leaving Nasch to hold himself aloft on his one free elbow. "You shouldn't lord over your defeated opponent, my friend."

"Oh?" Nasch lifts himself enough to take in Durbe's entire face. He makes no effort to climb from Durbe, who clearly enjoys this. "We're friends now, are we?"

"Certainly, if that's how you feel," Durbe says easily, the hand on Nasch's shoulder blades sliding down to his lower back.

They stare at each other a moment before Nasch snorts. He leans forward, slowly and tentatively. Durbe lifts his chin. "Idiot. Took you long enough."

(When they return to the palace, it's very late and Nasch's exasperated father expresses his annoyance at how filthy they are, covered in bits of volcanic rock and dirt, coming home in the middle of the night, wondering why they decided at sunset to go inspect the volcanic soil before Durbe explains it was the most convenient time given his time-consuming schedule. The king seems to buy it and goes to bed, shaking his head.

Merag, for her part, simply rolls her eyes and suppresses an exasperated smile.)


End file.
